


The First Time

by orphan_account



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Brother/Sister Incest, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-27
Updated: 2008-02-27
Packaged: 2019-08-22 23:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16607405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	The First Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The First Time](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/432308) by eleanor_rigby1. 



Lindsay remembered the first time.

There had been that tension since they were kids, she supposed. More tension than there should be between a brother and sister. The times she looked at Michael longer than she should, the times he was more than comforting and complimentary to her.

The times she wouldn't speak to him.

They had come close, she remembers, when they were both 18 and were drunk when they shouldn't have been because everyone was out and Lucille had left her liquor cabinet unlocked, and they were laughing on the couch at the movie and she had fallen onto his shoulder and their eyes had locked and they suddenly weren't laughing anymore and were very and quickly sober.

She still remembered how he said her name then, reverently and broken and longing and scared.

They would have, she thinks, had Gob not come thundering in, making them leap apart like they were scalded and both look furious, which only made Gob ask why they were fighting.

Michael left for college that next week, and she didn't speak to him. He didn't call her.

And then life happened and Lindsay was never happy, but she pretended to be, just to spite him. Yes, she was very happy. Sometimes she almost convinced herself.

A week after he married, she did too, because he looked so damn happy at the reception. She would not be upstaged. She didn't miss him. She didn't. At all. And now the ring on her hand made it official. Right?

She dreamt of him, sometimes.

She didn't go to her funeral. She didn't want to. She didn't want to see Michael.

But then life led her back to him, but she tried to ignore that. It was really infuriating. But then Michael was moving and no, she wasn't going to miss him because she hadn't _been_ missing him all these years; however, she really _should_ go check what was sellable out of the model home… She didn't expect to run into George Michael, and she didn't really expect to sit on the stairs with Michael, their knees almost touching, and her spilling out her guts to his kind eyes and she _really_ didn't expect to move in with him.

For the first time in a long time, she really was happy.

Sometimes she would wake up early and make coffee, and he would join her in the kitchen before work.

Sometimes.

And then sometimes she would fix his collar. And sometimes they stood too close. And sometimes it felt dangerous and like it did before, when they were young.

She was so, so happy and so, so vain.

They fell into this weird routine too fast, with lingering touches and leading looks and a secretiveness that was way too alluring. It was like old-times. Same old Michael, same old Lindsay.

Same old protective, handsome, warm, generous, nice, serious, disapproving, holier-than-thou, irritating, infuriating Michael.

Same old beautiful, committed, supportive, soft, naïve, proud, vain, greedy, argumentative, ridiculous Lindsay.

 

* * *

 

Lindsay remembered the first time.

That evening in the kitchen, where Michael was yelling at her greediness and naivety, and she was yelling at his stubbornness and need to always be the good guy, and he was looking so handsome in his button-up with long, moppish hair, and she in one of his shirts with pajama pants, (a need she could never admit to,) looking gorgeous and furious, and they just kept fighting over something that they really weren't fighting about, letting whatever this was out that way, on something that didn't really matter. She had been yelling loudly, gesturing wildly and angrily—anything to not look at him—being pointless and childish and stubborn, and he stood and just looked at her. And then suddenly he jerked her back around to face him, to face this, with fear and infinite sadness lifting his brow like he was in pain, and he didn't even pause as his mouth claimed hers.

She didn't feel shock or surprise—maybe because she wasn't—so instead she immediately melted into the kiss, letting Michael shove her roughly against the wall, his hand at her throat. She remembered she was on fire for him already, their tongues dueling frantically, and Michael looked hurt and scared and hungry somehow, which made her shudder deliciously against him.

He touched her the way he always touched her—soft eyes, broken sighs; quiet hands, quiet kiss.

And he said her name the way he did the almost-time before, and she broke in his hands.

She couldn't touch him fast enough, couldn't please him fast enough because she really DID want to please him, quite suddenly and oddly because she never wanted to before, (but she knows she wanted to all along.)

And Michael's lips moved down her jaw and neck while she mussed up his collar and unbuttoned his pristine white shirt and smeared her lipstick on it so later when they're trying to pretend this didn't happen she can prove to herself that it has. Michael's hands were everywhere, skimming torturously along her sides and breasts and along the waistline of her pajamas as her nails raked over his chest and he hissed sharply, (music to her ears,) flushing red and squeezing her thighs. Lindsay couldn't talk, so she whimpered for him instead, and Michael lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist, and Lindsay felt them moving but she was too busy kissing Michael's soft lips to care until she felt her brother laying her out on his bed. She clung to him, pulling him on top of her with clutching hands and needy noises that made Michael realize he's maybe not such a nice guy after all because his hands peeled off his sister's shirt—his shirt—and cupped her breasts gently. He looked at her in awe, in reverence, with that same pained look he wore before, and he lowered his mouth to her breasts, licking and kissing and teasing, making her arch her back and pull his face toward her, pleading for more. Her legs stayed twined about him as he laid over her, and she could feel how hard he is for her, and she couldn't help but grind her own wet, aching sex against his with a gasp, making Michael's hips jolt and his jaw fall slack with a moan. Her voice echoed his as his lips descended over her hardened nipples to the slope of her ribcage, his tongue and hands teasing sensitive flesh and making quick work of her pajamas and panties while she writhed impatiently. And then he was spreading her open, looking into her eyes with too much emotion and lowering his mouth and Oh God, Lindsay was dying an exquisite death while he worshipped her with his mouth, quick flicks and long strokes, knowing wordlessly how she liked it.

Maybe it was the whole twin thing.

As Lindsay fell over the edge, rasping Michael's name, he wondered where his reason, restraint and guilt went. He couldn't think long, though, because Lindsay had his clothes off and was stroking him so heatedly his whole mind shut off anything that didn't want to take Lindsay immediately and so suddenly he was above her and their skin was touching and Lindsay and he locked eyes.

And for the first time, after lives of aching restraint, he slid into her.

She cried, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks prettily as he brushed them away like he always had, and they moved in immediate, blissful tandem, and that's when Lindsay realized she's in love with her brother.

He's the one who told her out loud when he filled her up completely.

They sped up, murmuring each others names like prayers, and Lindsay felt like this was the first time she's ever done this properly, that this was how it should be, with Michael whispering things to her that made her want to scream and cry and come all at once while he kissed her delicately. His scent overwhelmed her when his head burrowed into the crook of her shoulder and he whispered his love against her skin and she lost it, yelling his name muffled into his mouth and he followed right behind her, whispering her name like he did all those years ago.

 

* * *

 

Lindsay remembered the first time.

Michael can't bleach the lipstick off his shirt and Lindsay knows he doesn't really want to. She doesn't either.

She's happy, and so is Michael. Until sometimes when the shame and guilt creeps in, but he's always wiped away her tears and now should be no different.

She's glad their first time wasn't their last.


End file.
